"Good morning, cunt."  Madam Tortoor’s cold greeting is accompanied by a sneer of biting contempt.

My guard jerks at my collar-chain to encourage my response.  "Good morning, Mistress," I answer softly.  Since dignity is all that I have left now, I must protect it in the only way that I can -- by doing my best to ignore the cruel indignities that are continually inflicted upon me.

Naked and in spitefully degrading bondage, I am on my knees in the breakfast room of my state-appointed guardian’s villa.  This is part of my daily routine: being brought from my cell to be taunted and abused by the woman who was formerly my chief social rival in Carthage.

Madam Tortoor must have used all the influence she could muster in Rome to secure her appointment as my guardian after my husband was executed for treason and I was consequently condemned to perpetual state slavery.  Well, life for me consists of endless mortification and grinding torment under her sadistic reign.  Only my dignity remains to me, when I can hold onto it, for my body is completely under her dominion.

With my wrists shackled sternly behind me and a short chain linking the heavy cuffs locked about my ankles, I am under my guard’s close control.  He holds a short leash clipped to the high iron collar that has been riveted permanently about my throat.  I sit erect on my haunches, thighs apart and shoulders back so that my bare breasts jut outward shamelessly. I have learned that even momentary failure to hold this pose will invite more discipline.

My tormentor leans forward to look down at me.  "Have you recovered from last evening’s games, you wretched slut?  You certainly put on an educational show for my friends . . . at last they saw what kind of a whore you really are."

I respond automatically, "Yes, thank you, Mistress."  But I shiver at the awful memory.  The "show" she refers to began with my being forced to run an obstacle-course in the garden several times in heavy bondage and weights, spurred on by the guards’ whips, for the amusement of her dinner guests.

My arms had been cruelly doubled inside leather shortgloves and my legs were hobbled at both knees and ankles.  I was also encumbered by a thick iron bar strapped down my spine from the back of my collar to my crotch that held my torso rigid.  The obstacles included low fences that I had to get over, several barrels through which I had to crawl, and a balance-beam that I had to shuffle across.

Needless to say, I could not move as quickly as the guards demanded, nor could I keep my balance on the beam for very long.  So their whips got a good workout and I was in constant agony.  After squirming and stumbling through the course a third time, my bondage was changed so that I could perform some other humiliating "tricks."

With my neck secured in a low stock and my wrists chained to my ankles, I was forced to give oral service to a large mongrel dog until he climaxed.  Finally, bound in a taut spreadeagle over a barrel in the center of the garden, I was slowly and artfully raped by Ubbadu, an African dwarf.

I cringe inwardly as I remember my shrill cries of pleasure.

Certainly the worst thing about this durance vile, even worse than the chains and the whips, has been Mistress’s relentless emphasis on increasing my sensitivity to erotic stimulation.  By now, only seven months into her horrid regimen, my body has become exquisitely sensitive to sexual arousal, and my inability to control its carnal demands leaves me open to endless humiliation.  She has found a broad portal through which my dignity can be crushed at any time.

The training has been rigorous.  I have found that Izaak, her chief torture-master, is abundantly skilled also in the art of heightening a woman’s sexual hungers.  With my legs spread wide by chains, aphrodisiac crèmes and powers have been used to make my clit acutely sensitive to even the gentlest stimulation.  Secret oils have been massaged into my breasts until I shriek with lust.  My nipples have been smeared with a crème that induces a terrible itching and makes them stiffen under the maddening irritation.

Under Izaak’s direction, I have been impaled daily upon one of a wide array of incredibly tantalizing dildos and then forced to march or crawl about in heavy bondage until I reached climax again and again.  Sometimes, both lower entries have been used.  And under threat of severe punishment, I have learned to use my mouth to bring hot pleasure to anyone, male or female.

By means of these and other abominations, I have been perversely taught that the whip can bring pleasure, and that rich bodily satisfaction is near whenever I am closely bondaged in leather and iron.  Thanks to Izaak’s obscene schooling, my sexual stamina has been marvelously extended as well, making it possible for me to undergo hours of the lewdest exercises in perversion and shame without reaching final satiation.  I shrink from the knowledge that my body’s constant thirst for physical pleasure has come to define my entire being.

Because my flesh has at last been rapturously victorious in its battle against my womanly modesty, I become half-crazed with a mixture of horror and excitement whenever I learn that my vulnerabilities are to be exploited anew.  My mind recoils from what I know is to come, even while my body trembles with greedy anticipation.  The very sight of a studded leather bodystrap is enough to set me panting now, and my loins grow hot and moist whenever the silver D-rings are inserted through the tunnels that have been bored horizontally behind and below my throbbing nipples.  What more horrid punishment could a woman undergo?

But I am subjected to such abuse every day, and yet I live.  The intense sexual delights that fill and thrill my body cannot be evaded, despite the terrible humiliation that accompanies them.  It is really my mind that suffers, even more than my body.  Surely Mistress knows that.

She smiles down at me generously.  "I have planned something special for you today, Lady Gwynda.  After your training hour with Izaak, I’m going to take you with me to the market for some shopping.  Won’t that be fun?"

Shopping?  I am speechless for a moment.  God knows what new debasements this will entail.  Then, automatically, I mouth the required words, "Thank you, Mistress."

"Good," she replies.  "I want to get some new articles for your, ah, wardrobe, and we want to be sure they’ll fit.  Izaak will of course put you into the proper outfit for the occasion."

Leaving me to frown with anxiety, Mistress rises and bids me adieu.  My guard yanks at my leash again and I must lean forward to touch my forehead to the floor as I have been taught.  Only when she has gone am I allowed to resume my kneeling position. Then I must struggle to my feet and stumble after my guard to the training room.

Today, Izaak announces, I will first ride the wooden horse while his muscular assistants keep it in motion.  This is simply a great oaken log suspended in the air by chains at either end.  It has a "saddle" carved into it that is far too narrow for comfort, and I see that it has been equipped this morning with a monstrous horsehair-covered dildo standing up in the center.  I inspect it warily at first, and then with growing carnal interest.

After removing my hobble, his assistants hold me firmly and force my legs wide apart.  Izaak rubs a powerful aphrodisiac crème between my thighs, massaging it into my private parts until its itchy heat has aroused me.  I can hear my husky breathing growing louder.  Other hands seize my breasts and buns to stimulate them with tantalizing pressures, and I feel my nipples becoming thick and stiff.

Moments later, after I have been thoroughly prepared for the dildo, I am hoisted over the horse and gradually lowered so that I can take the beckoning rod into my ready puss.  I hate the carol of hungry delight that comes from my throat as the thing’s scratchy thickness stretches and pleasures my womanhood.  I twist my head from side to side frantically while the guards bend my legs double and strap them at the sides of my "steed," ensuring that I cannot escape the brutal penetrator.

Finally, my arms are freed from behind me, only to be lashed tightly at my sides so that I cannot use them for balance.  Izaak adds a smear of the awful crème to each of my nipples, making them itch horribly, and then tells his assistants to put the horse in motion.  In succession, they make it trot, canter, and then gallop, and my torso swings wildly, helplessly, while I endure the steady pounding and wrenching at my groin.

Naturally, my body responds avidly.  Although I bite my tongue at first, the rough stimulation soon forces me to acknowledge its delicious effects.   "Ahh... yes, Yesss," I grunt, and then, louder, "Unnnhh, ahh, more--mo-o-oore!"

My artificial steed responds immediately with more energetic motion.  I clench my knees against its sides as my body is whipped back and forth.  The dildo reams me violently, something that would be acutely painful if it were not for my frantic need for still more stimulation.  I shout for more action, wishing frantically that I could grab my throbbing bosoms to assuage their hunger.

At last I reach my first climax of the day.  My body stiffens and I arch my back under the welcome torrent of rapture that rises in my cunt and spreads marvelously through the rest of me. Rough hands grip my breasts, answering my unspoken plea, and my mouth opens wide in a howl of brutish gratitude.

Under such goading and such primitive pleasure, how can I worry about a mere shopping trip later in the day?

Before I can recover from the orgasm, the guards have freed me from the horse and set me on my feet.  My loins ache from the pounding they have undergone, but at the same time quiver with echoes of the fierce pleasure that has been engendered there.  Izaak stands before me with a thin smile.

"Next, Lady, we will use your mouth.  Ubbadu, your little black friend from last night, is in need of, ahh, oral service, and we have arranged for you to provide it."  He pauses and nods to a guard, who leaves the room.  Then he tells me, "If you fail to satisfy him within five minutes, you will suffer additional discipline.   Do you understand?"

I nod mutely.  To go down on the muscular dwarf who raped me last evening will be humiliating, but I can do it.  Secretly, in fact, I find that I am hungry for the taste of his meat.  A moment later, Ubbadu is brought in on the end of a leash fastened to his nose-ring.   He is naked and in severe restraint -- arms strapped wrist-to-elbow behind him and legs held apart by a hamperbar locked between cuffs above his knees.  He moves clumsily.

I cannot take my eyes off his incredibly long, thick cock, which is already showing signs of arousal.  He may be a dwarf, but his equipment is that of a giant!  Despite his awkward shuffling, I can see his gap-toothed grin.  Clearly, he has been told what he can expect.

To my shocked surprise, Ubbadu’s back-bound arms are freed and instead his wrists are chained together before him. The extra freedom he will have with his hands promises more misery for me.  Then the guard stations him with his back to a post and secures him there with straps at his throat and waist.  His enormous black rod continues to thicken and rise until it is standing out stiffly before him.  Although I know that I should despise myself, I lick my lips in anticipation.

First, though, my own bondage must be changed.  I kneel on command and Izaak locks a short chain taut between the center of my hobble and the front of my constrictive leather corselet so that I cannot straighten my legs.  The chain cuts up across my mons.  I know that by raising my hips from my heels and arching my back, I can make it dig in between my lovelips -- and that despite the shame, I will use this maneuver to assuage the frustration that will certainly come.

Then Izaak forces my arms into a single-glove behind me.  He laces it up until its constriction has drawn my elbows firmly together in the center of my back and crushes my forearms against each other down to my wrists.  Luckily, I have been subjected to this form of arm bondage often enough so that my muscles are used to it.  Automatically, I twist my shoulders to make my bosoms shake.  They are still wonderfully sensitive because of the crème and the earlier horseback ride, and much in need now of further stimulation.

I am told to crawl over to Ubbadu’s post.  The stinging touch of a whisk quirt across my shoulders encourages me, and in a moment I am on my knees before the drooling, crooning dwarf.  His organ awaits my attention.

I lean forward, lips parted, and take it into my mouth.  It is thick and salty-tasting and throbbing mightily.  Then his manacled hands are at the back of my head, forcing me closer and closer.  I can feel his dick probe at the back of my throat, almost making me gag.  But I suppress the urge and begin to work my jaw back and forth.  Ubbadu groans with pleasure.

I run my tongue roughly around his great rigid column, hoping to bring him to climax right away.  I exert as much suction as I can.  I nip teasingly at its base.  I clamp my lips about him and shake my head.  He groans again.

Then I hear Izaak’s voice, harsh in the primitive tongue of Ubbadu’s people, telling him something I cannot understand.

At once, Ubbadu’s hands leave my head and he tries to pull his rod away too.  I cannot allow that!  The devilish Izaak undoubtedly has told him that he will be punished if he cums too soon, thereby setting up a desperate contest between us. Certainly, one of us will be severely disciplined, no matter how our forced union concludes.  I renew my erotic assault, determined that I shall not be the loser.

I am not surprised, then, when the dwarf begins to hit him himself in the face with his own shackled fists.  He is frantic to avoid cuming, I can tell, for surely the pain he is inflicting on himself is meant to distract him from my attentions.  But I will not give up.  I force my face closer to him, trying to swallow his marvelous prick entirely.  He groans and strikes himself again.

Then I close my teeth gently about the base of his organ, teasing and threatening him at the same time.  He clubs his chin again and I bite harder.  He grunts in pained reaction.  Once more he hits himself, and once more I bite, this time even harder.  Eventually, he gets the message.

Then, almost reluctantly, he puts his hands behind my head and pulls me closer to him.  It is clear now that I will win this contest.  I am also eager to bring him to climax out of my own wanton lust, and my lips and tongue inform him of this brazen enthusiasm.  He gets the message as well, and soon he is working his hips back and forth in the age-old rhythm of love.  I close my lips about him and worry his dick with my tongue while I suck even harder.

A few moments later, the dwarf surrenders to me.  I can feel his body go rigid with excitement, and then there is his shuddering groan of relief and a great rush of gism into my mouth as he explodes in rapture.  There is no climax for me, but at least I can rise up until my hobble-chain is taut between my lovelips and provides me a small hint of pleasure.  I pull away from him, moaning with unsatisfied need while I savor and gulp his semen.

Quickly, his rod goes limp and he covers his face with his hands.  Then my oral victim shrieks in horror.  Turning my head, I see another guard grinning and holding up a monstrous butt-plug.  It is obvious that this will be Ubbadu’s punishment for succumbing to my oral talents.

It would be gratifying to see it forced up his pudgy rear end, but my schedule will not allow that.  Instead, the chain holding me in a kneeling position is removed and I must mince after a guard to the chamber where I will be outfitted for my journey to the market with Madam Tortoor.

First, though, he explains that Madam Tortoor plans to exhibit me at another feast this evening.  She has ordered him to create something special for me.  Thus, he has designed a new bondage outfit that he wishes to try out before preparing me for the marketing trip.  I nod, gritting my teeth.

First, my arms are freed and then doubled and laced into a pair of shortgloves that hold them harshly bent, each hand hard against its shoulder.  Then fingerless mitts of strong, thin leather are pulled down over my hands and secured to my wrist cuffs, crushing my fingers into useless fists.  My arm bondage is completed when the guards fasten a long wooden rod across my shoulders and stretch my doubled arms out along it like outthrust wings.  They buckle slender straps about it at my shoulders, elbows, and wrists to hold my arms motionless in this pose.

My crotch is Izaak’s next target.  Today it will be the straddle-jack, a wooden bar about two yards in length that is equipped with a thick six-inch dildo standing up from its center.  While my legs are spread apart, the device is positioned between my thighs.  Then, as two guards raise the nasty thing, I must accept the dildo into my body and wait while the bar is secured horizontally by straps pulled up from it to the front and rear of my corselet.  The straps are made taut and I hiss with excitement as the tormentor’s generous diameter stretches my womanflesh.

With this apparatus fastened up so tightly between my legs, I am acutely sensitive to its position. If its forward end is pushed down, I must bend forward to accommodate the dildo’s movement, and if the rear end is shoved down I must lean backwards. And it occurs to me that any hip movements I make in seeking relief from sexual hunger will be obvious because of the jack’s movements. It is truly a fiendish device!

To make things even more uncomfortable for me, Izaak then directs the guards to fasten thin chains from the ends of my shoulder-rod to the rear of the straddle-jack, and to tighten them until no slack remains. A turn either right or left will exert an upward pull on the jack’s rear end, forcing me to lean forward immediately.  It will be much wiser, of course, to hold my torso quite rigid.

Tiptoe sandals for my feet come next, open-toed and equipped with stiletto heels that will keep my balance constantly at risk.  And my new hobble is fastened not between my ankles but between smaller cuffs locked over my great toes, an arrangement that will ensure real pain whenever I accidentally try to overstep the hobble’s limit.  Its 12-inch length will restrict me to the quick, mincing steps that are required of a slave.

Surveying me with satisfaction, Izaak says thoughtfully, "Madam Tortoor is indeed kind, Lady Gwynda.  She has ordered that you not be gagged during the feast, so that you may converse with her and her guests.  I am sure they will be interested in your opinion of your new outfit."

I bite my lip.  There are times when even a brank is preferable to the freedom to speak, particularly when all the questions I am forced to answer can only accentuate my humiliation.

Izaak goes on.  "You will also have to be leashed, Lady, and I have devised a method that should amuse you and her guests no end."

I cringe to see a guard bring the breast-rings.  But there is no escaping them, and soon one of the horrid silver devices has been inserted into each of my breasts and closed so that its arc hangs down below my nipples. I moan at the pain, even though, perversely, I can also feel the heat of erotic arousal pulsing through my bosoms.

Long leather cords are then knotted to the rings, and both are drawn forward to pass through a ring at the front end of the straddle-jack.  Izaak takes the ends of the cords -- reins really -- and looks me in the eye.  I cannot stop staring at the cords in his hands.

"Observe, Lady.  When I pull on the cords, this end of the jack is pulled upward.  But you will have to resist it."  He demonstrates this with a sudden jerk, forcing the front end of the jack up.  Simultaneously, I feel the dildo urging me to lean backwards while my breasts are pulled forward.  Cruel dilemma!  My gargled cry of agony brings a broad grin to his face.

The upshot of this lesson is that I must be acutely sensitive to Madam Tortoor’s orders so long as she holds my leash this evening -- and to the orders of anyone else who may hold it as well.

Satisfied that the new arrangement will work as planned, Izaak then tells the guards to remove the straddle-jack and also the shoulder-rod.  I sigh with disappointment as the dildo is taken from me.

"Leave the shortgloves on her," he directs, "and leave her crotch open.  I believe that the Madam will need it that way.  Oh, and secure her elbows together behind her."

Soon my shoulders are wrenched back harshly and my bare breasts thrust forward, their rings making me vulnerable to all sorts of torment, while the rings at my elbows are drawn together.  A longer chain replaces the original hobble that linked my toe-cuffs, allowing me a 15-inch pace so that I will not delay my Mistress as we move through the market.